Tuesday, May 31, 2005

Premie-um Laughs

People on the Bus Don't Washington

I decided to take a "minibreak" this Memorial Day weekend, and head down to Washington D.C. to visit my friend Carolyn and explore the city a little. My previous jaunts to D.C. were quite short and usually "chaperoned", hence I'd never really taken part in the nightlife scene at all. And why get wasted in New York, when a whole new urban fiesta awaits you?

Now, due to financial considerations beyond my control, I had no choice but to take the BUS down to DC. It wouldn't be my first time riding Greyhound -- a trip to Boston a few years back wasn't bad at all, although I did have a friend along for the ride. Now, my only friend would be an overpriced hummus wrap and a good book. Port Authority was packed as I had expected. This wouldn't be like riding the bus on a high school field trip, where you were guaranteed two seats and could curl up with a sweatshirt and nap. No, I was guaranteed a seatmate. I sized up the line for who look relatively bathed, thin and quiet. Skinny and quiet. Those were two musts. Thankfully, half of the bus was made up of Eastern Europeans, whom, while skinny and poorly attired, didn't really meet the bathing standard. (Relax! I'm Hungarian and poorly bathed.) A nice couple behind me suggested I sit right up front, which I did, next to a nice enough woman who kept to herself as did I. When we both pulled out our Ipods at the same time and gave each other knowing smiles, I knew this was a temporary seat-mate match made in Heaven.

No, my problems didn't begin until I got to D.C. Saturday evening. Dazed, walking around their sketchy bus depot, a man devoid of any teeth and in a filthy baseball cap asked if I wanted a taxi. I did, and while in New York I normally tell those unmetered taxi people to go to hell, here I just nodded and shuffled along behind him. He rounded up another woman, funny enough my seatmate from the bus, to join in. As we walked outside, I noticed that his "cab" was in fact a 1972 wood-panelled station wagon, and inside it was a "huge brown dog". "Is that your dog?" "Yeah." "Oh, I'm not riding in your car with that dog." Here I would put my foot down. As he drove away, he yelled out his window "Well the dog's allergic to you, too!" Good one, I thought. Then I saw my ex-seatmate laugh it up in the front. I thought we were friends?

Before I could realize that I was abandoned at the bus station, a small ball-busting woman named "Pat" swooped in, practically pushing me into her Kia which would take me to my destination. Only after the engine started did I realize that I was in a strange woman's car (not a real taxi), with all my money and personals, being driven to a place I'd never been. I called my friend and tried to mask my voice, which would have said "Hey! I'm about to be murdered and left in a ditch! Did you say right on U street or left?" but instead was like "Hi! I'm in a car with Pat! It's a 1999 blue Kia -- and a beautiful one! Carolyn, Pat's hair and outfit would look perfect on you -- short black hair and a blue suit!" Pat, meanwhile, regaled me with stories of how she ended up driving the "taxi", after being fired from her job at the Post, and hating everyone and everything. Maybe I haven't said it yet, but Pat was literally a crazy face. When she finally dropped me off, I added a $2 "Thanks for not maiming me" fee to her fare. It ended up costing me twice as much as a normal cab, but hey, I was LOVING LIFE!

Carolyn's house is beautiful. It was a gorgeous night, consisting of a delicious dinner at a packed restaurant, seeing some old friends, drinking -- a lot of fun.

Breakfast Lunch and Chicken.

Sunday was sightseeing day. The funny thing about D.C. was that, even on Memorial Day, the streets were EMPTY. Like, not a single human being ANYWHERE. I thought I was in motherfuckin 28 Days Later or some shit. It wasn't until we got to Georgetown, to a cute shopping street, very Faux Americana, that was bustling with well-to-do Prepsters. Sure enough, within 5 minutes of arriving, I made my presence known by tripping on a trickily shaped curb and skinning my knee, something I haven't done since I was 5. In my defense, my fall was quite graceful.

Georgetown with a Menacing Chance of Showers

Me being artsy.

Carolyn after learning that Paul Reiser is not, in fact, one of her two dads.

Also, Starbucks is now serving Scat.

From there, onto the historic sites!! First stop, The White House. Now, I consider myself Patriotic to a degree. But for some reason, seeing the White House didn't fill me with the same kind of awe as when I see, for example, Buckingham Palace.

While approaching the black iron gates, I notice two men are taking a photograph together, and that there's a bit of a commotion. Lots of handshaking and thank you's are exchanged. Now, as my friend Carolyn will tell it, one of the men was a nice looking black gentlemen in a plain looking t-shirt and jeans. The other man, also black, was drop-dead gorgeous: bald-headed, in a white linen tunic with expensive jeans, and wrap around Armani sunglasses. I hear two little girls of the more moderately dressed fellow yelling "I'm his niece!" "I'm his daughter!" So, understandably, I assume that the plainer guy has to be somebody - Why would the niece of a nobody call attention to herself?? (p.s. The girl was about 5 years old.)

So, very slyly, as I do, I walk over to the beautifully dressed, gorgeous bald guy, in his $500 shades and Gucci tunic, walking with an entourage of about, oh, I don't know, say 28 of his closest friends and family, touch his arm (eek! rock solid!) and say, all conspiratorially, "Hey... who was that guy??"

He looked at me like I was 1. Fucking crazy; 2. The whitest person he'd ever seen; 3. Certifiably insane.

After a considerable pause (no doubt, of shock), he responds "Well, I don't know who he is..." he trailed off. "He wanted a picture with me."

"Oh!! That's nice!" I smile like a loser. "Who are you?"

Pause for manhood being hurt. "Uh.. I'm an actor. I'm on a show called 'The Wire'." I have never seen The Wire, but scraped up some facts from the endless HBO promos.

"Get out!! The Wire! I love that show. What's the name of the guy on that show? The gorgeous British guy... West?" I knew the name, but was making small talk. Pause for some vinegar and water to dribble down my chin (douchebag.)

I look for my friend. She is huddled with 25 other tourists, covering her face and laughing her ass off. She said it was like watching a car accident in slow motion -- that I manage to find the one "celebrity" in D.C. and embarass him.

Turns out, I had met Idris Elba. The good news is, I seriously had never seen him in anything. So, there you have it.

Able was I, ere I met Elba.

We followed up our "celeb" encounter with a walk to the Monument and down to Congress. Then more dinner, more drinks.

Pause to reflect on our government.

And, yeeeeees, the reflecting pond is still populated by fetus-sucking demon ducks.

A poster on Capitol Hill advertising a new game for kids -- kinda like "Where's Waldo" but with more pain and suffering.

Monday was a treat -- the National Gallery in D.C., one of the most beautiful museums around, is having a Toulouse-Lautrec and Montmarte exhibit, with basically every famous Lautrec work around, and some Picasso's and Van Gogh's thrown in for good measure. At times, I felt like I was walking around a college dormitory poster shop.

My new favorite Museum, or as the Hungarians say, "Moo-ZAY-oh."

Camman - you know you want to see it.... what have you got (pause for suicide) Toulouse??

Carolyn went wine-tasting, and her friend Joaquin was kind enough to drive me to the bus stop, saving me one bout of heart palpitations. Once at the station, the lines were insane. I got to the back of an extreeeeeeemely long line of people waiting to be bussed to New York, and began chatting with two guys behind me, James and Ralph. An adorable gay couple, we of course hit it off immediately. We spent the next hour or so asking ourselved WHY we took the bus, pointing out all the maniacs around us, sharing horror stories, cursing ourselved, and talking about reality television. I loved these guys, I really did. Following an uneventful ride back to the city, we exchanged hugs and kisses, and they even took my number. Who knew I would make friends on the Greyhound bus?

So a thank you to Carolyn for the lovely stay, and all of her friends, Jaime, Joaquin, Lorraine, for making me feel so welcome. This morning, I was manhandled on the subway. Glad to be back, New York.

A fatally injured man pulled a crossbow arrow out of his torso and taunted the man who shot him, saying: "Is that all you've f... got?"

Soon afterwards, Anton Nauer collapsed and within hours he was dead from being shot by Dean Pender in a late-night confrontation at Pender's Christchurch home.

Prosecutor Kerryn Beaton said Nauer, McDougall and Little had arrived at Pender's home in Wainoni about 3am on Sunday, December 19.

During the previous evening there had been a series of incidents, including a window being smashed at the home of Pender's former girlfriend, leading to the trio allegedly arming themselves with num-chukkas and a knife.

"The allegation is that Nauer proceeded onto the property, bearing a set of num-chukkas, and there was an altercation with Pender, who obtained a crossbow and fired a fatal shot at Nauer," Beaton said.

"They said, `Do you know where Dean Pender is? Get him here'. They said he'd smashed Natasha's window," she said.

They yelled out: 'Oi, Pender, you're going to effing pay. Rah, rah.'

"The guy pulled out num-chukkas and started swinging them around and started getting really aggressive. By this time Dean was down the driveway and they all saw him and started yelling, 'You're going to f... pay.'

"They started running towards Dean and the guy was swinging the num-chukkas. I got pushed to the ground by the Maori guy with (McDougall) right behind me.

"They were yelling 'You're going to f... pay, Pender. We're going to get you.' (Nauer) said `We're going to f... kill you.' McDougall had a knife in his hand. It was like a hunting knife.

"I was freaking out. It all happened so fast – they were running towards Dean and I got pushed to the ground. I was getting off the ground when it happened. Dean said 'Get back or I'll f... shoot. Get back. Get back.' That's the only time I heard him yelling.

"Then the Maori guy was pulling out the crossbow (arrow from his torso). As he was pulling it out, he said 'Is that all you've f... got?' He handed it to Shaun then he and the two European guys (McDougall and Little) started taking off up the driveway."

This has to be one of the most INTENSE fucking fights I have ever read about! Who do these guys think they are, Q Tarantino? To pull a CROSSBOW out of your chest and scream "Is that all you fuckin got?!"

Sometimes in New York, you begin to miss blatant masculinity. So hard to come by these days. This might be my favorite thing ever.

Actually, this might.

No, definitely this.

With thanks to the other most masculine person I know, Eli Liedman, for the scoop. (And yes, he really is a steel worker.)

Thursday, May 26, 2005

J. Jew

You don't want to know what kind of hair the cap hath hide. And Berenstain's a Jewish name, no?

One of the reasons I fled Miami the moment my mortarboard hit the ground post-high school wasn't so much the hot hot heat, or the lack of culture... a big reason I left was because of the people. I'm sure everyone reading this can think back to high school, back to cliques that they were above, people they disliked, etc. For me, that was like 90 percent of the population. I wanted out. Thankfully, following a near miss with the University of Florida, which would have been a regurgitation of all things hated, I moved to New York and have been thriving in my hatred ever since.

My parents weren't so lucky. They still reside in Miami, a city I've learned to love after all these years, namely for bargain shopping, but also for the good memories I still have. Inevitably when I return home, I see or run into someone from my past, and have unbecoming seizures a la the little boy in "The Shining".

My mother, after raising her two kids and bidding us adieu from her abode, decided to get a job again about a year ago. Dear ol' Dad was the one pulling in the kosher bacon, while Mother kept us well-fed and neurotic. She wasn't sure exactly what line of business she wanted to get into. Having not worked in an office for 30 years, she enrolled in a computer course to bring her up to speed. 4 weeks later, and this woman can play virtual Solitaire like nobody's business. Typing with acrylic nails, on the other hand, has proved more difficult.

Finally, following a friend's advice, she figured that retail would be a perfect match. Upon meeting her, people immediately love my Mom. As a child, my friend's would say "You have the coolest Mom!" I'd grin and agree, then huddle in the corner with some twigs and a Q-tip, trying to massage out the numerous emotional scars that any Jewish mother, no matter how funny and wild, would leave on their child.

Some children choose to honor their hard-working moms with statues made of petrified fecal matter.

Eventually, mother got hired at a retail store in our local, fancy-shmancy mall. She loved it immediately. The community, her co-workers, all the characters she was meeting. After a few months, our conversations turned to this: "Hi Mom, how are you?" "Oh the store got in some beau-tee-ful jackets the other day - drop dead gorgeous! I had a Romanian woman come into the store yesterday, a model, she tried on our new poplin khakis, made in Italy, they looked stunning on her!! Cash or charge?" ad nauseum.

Possibly the best part of this whole thing is that every week, some person from my youth will make their way into the store and inevitably remember her. "Excuse me, are you Michelle's mom?" By asking her this question, you are pretty much locking yourself into a 45-minute answer. After confirmation of that yes, I am her daughter, my mother will launch into a 20 minute tirade about all the things I'm up to ("She works on Wall Street!" she tells people, leading them to believe that I'm a Charlie Sheen redux and not some shit-on assistant at a law firm). Eventually, she'll run into the break room to pull out some random publication (the "Upper West Side Monthly Newsletter", for example) where my name was printed once 3 years ago. Her arms filled with yesterday's news and everlasting pride, she will regale these virtual strangers on a history of my doings. Of course, this pleases me greatly.

Now, most of the time, when the name of an old acquaintance is mentioned , I groan. Silly me, I thought I'd never have to hear about these people ever again.

Yesterday, my mother shares a new story with me. She mentions that a very handsome, tall guy comes into the store, and asked if she was my mother. It turns out, I had been in a youth orchestra with this gentlemen. (Yes, before I was a maestro of the blogging keyboard, I sat 5th chair, 1st violin in a Miami youth orchestra full of well-to-do, but horribly socially awkward, children.) I had trouble remembering who this guy was -- it's hard to place a face after 11 years.

"He's gorgeous! Blonde, perfect teeth, a real catch. He plays cello professionally!" my mother beamed through the phone. "He was with a girl, she was kind of plain. Not sure if she was his girlfriend." I found this very suspect. Why would such a gorgeous successful guy be dating a "shlumpy"-ish lady? I needed to do some stalking research.

So, I signed on to everyone's best friend, Friendster, to search his name and place a face. Sure enough, there he was -- and yay! I was closely connected! Here's how the conversation between me and my mother went down:

Me: Hmm... I still don't quite remember this guy. (clicking through pics) Mom, he is definitely gay.Mother: What?? No he isn't! He's gorgeous! Tall, blonde, perfect teeth --Me: Mom! He's gay!! I can see it in his face - he's a huge gay!Mother: How can you tell?Me: Well, first of all, it says he's intereted in dating men.

(It occurs to me Mother has never been on Friendster)

Mother: Whaddya mean "interested in dating men."Me: Oh, and in one of his pictures, he has the words "Butt Slut" written in marker on his forehead.Mother: What?Me: "Butt slut."Mother: (laughing) Where are you seeing this? Send me the website, I wanna see!Me: No, Mom, you can't see because you need to be invited to Friendster.Mother: So how do I get invited?Me: Someone who's on it sends you an e-mail.Mother: So send me one!Me: Mom! I'm not inviting you to be my Friendster!Mother: Why not?Me: That's crazy! No one does that.Mother: Why do you care so much! What are you hiding?!Me: Nothing! No one asks their Mom to be their Friendster!Mother: But I want to see what he looks like!

Well, this went on for about 5 more minutes, until we compromised that I would e-mail her a picture of "Butt Slut" to prove that he was into guyz. I dare not tell you how many times the words "Butt Slut" were exchanged between Mother and I, but let's just say: "Too many."

When recounting this story to a friend, she suggested I invite my Mom to Friendster. "Everyone loves her!" I think that might be my main problem. What if I invited my Mother to Friendster, and she ended up being more popular than me? With more friends, and (God forbid) more testimonials?! And can you imagine her bulletin board postings? "Michelle passed another pregnancy test!!"... or "20% off all Summer Cashmere -- Come by, say hello!"

Wednesday, May 25, 2005

Emerging Comedy Awards

Good news everyone! Like a newborn whale springing forth from its mothers whale-vag, I've been nominated for an Emerging Comics of New York Award (or ECNY, as we nominees call it) for Best Comedic Website.

Fuck that it's an honor to be nominated bullshit and vote for me so I can finally have a brother to my "World's Stinkiest Fart" award. And it isn't every day that I use the hugetime font, but...

- Giving new meaning to pooper-scooper: A man in Taiwan opens up a toilet-themed restaurant (ingeniuosly named "Toilet"), where people sit at bathrub-tables, and eat curried chicken out of small toilet bowls. The inspiration for the restuarant should be obvious, but if not, let me elaborate:

To make sure his investment wouldn't go down the pan, Wang first tested the water for the toilet food gimmick by peddling ice cream in toilet-shaped cones in street booths four months before opening his restaurant. It was an instant hit as he sold up to 1,000 ice-cream cones daily for $30 dollars each ($1.20) - 5 to 10 dollars higher than a regular one.

His idea came from a popular Japanese comic featuring a robot doll fond of eating excrement in ice cream cones.

- Someone at the Cincinnati Enquirer clearly has no idea how fucking high school works:YOU CANNOT BE HOMECOMING QUEEN AT THE PROM, ASSHOLE. IT'S PROM QUEEN. PROM. QUEEN. GOD ALMIIIGHTY, IT'S SO SIMPLE!!!! (I'm in a terrible mood.)

Phil Spect-acle

Monday, May 23, 2005

My Sass-Kicking Weekend

In an effort to save money this weekend, I made a promise to myself that I wouldn't go out drinking. Now I'm not talking about a shot of gin before bedtime -- that only sets me back a couple of pesos and always guarantees a rolicking good dream-fest of clowns tying me to a stake while Eichmann lights my toes on fire, all the while David Hyde Pierce lurks in the background, conducting his orchestra of sin.

A smirk like that can only be the Devil's doing.

No, I refer to my typical weekend activity of meeting some friends in a bar downtown somewhere, plunking down major change to get sauced, and then shelling out $20 or more for some thieving cabbie who brakes at the yellow to have to drive my drooling ass back to the shanty I call "Home." This weekend, there would be none of that: Just wholesome, inexpensive eff you en. Fun. Little did I know that the aggression I normally save for an old-fashioned barroom brawl would make appearances in the most unlikely of locations.

Saturday an old friend was in from out of town. The thing I love about this friend, other than her company, is her willingness to go to the movies. Believe it or not, it's very hard to convince people in their early 20's to plunk down $10.50 to sit through any number of films, including, but not limited to, any and all Matthew Lillard films, "talkies", and "Zebra Stripes". It was, therefore, a perfect coincidence that this friend be visiting the very same weekend Star Wars III was released.

As we walked down to the AMC Theater at Times Square (which, if you're like me and like strangers to feel you up in tight, crowded spaces, is a great place for movie-watching), a woman stopped us and the following conversation took place. Now while our tones were kept light, note the underlying rage in both of our voices:

Woman: Excuse me, are you from around here?Me: Yes....?Woman: Oh, good. I'm looking for a futon store that I think is somewhere on this block.Me: Oh, I wouldn't know, I don't live right over here. You might want to go in a store and ask someone if they --Woman: Well, thanks, I think I could've figured that o-Me: Well, I'm sure you're a functioning human being.

Haha -- huh? Where did that come from? Take it easy, Mich! Down girl!

But that wasn't the end of my sasshole streak. Following Star Wars, which, to sum it up in Lucas-esque dialogue, went something like this:

Obi-Wan: Good is better.Darth: Evil is power.Natalie Portman: I'm pregnant. I'm beautiful because I love you when you are nice and not evil.Darth: I wish to be powerful, therefore I am evil.(Natalie hugs Darth)Natalie: Ow! A splinter!Yoda: This movie is long too fucking.(Destruction)Darth: My limbs!(They dress Darth up in a six-foot long black oven mitt)Darth: Ow! I mean --James Earl Jones: Oooowwww.

I dare anyone who saw this movie to refute my summary. Point being, post-movie my friend and I were feeling fairly unsatisfied (although I will admit that once Darth is in costume, i.e. the last 5 minutes, the movie kind of picked up.)

Now here's the reason why I consider AMC Times Square to be the best theater in New York. Forget the stadium seating, the fantastic sound, the solid gold popcorn buckets, the Chippendales ushers... the real reason why this theater kicks it up a crotch is that it makes sneaking into another movie practically effortless. They may as well just hold your hand and walk you into the next movie. Now, even though they tried to shepherd us out of the theater, a clever extended bathroom break allowed us to make our way back into the main corridor pretty easily. With that, we were up the stairs looking for a movie that actually made us remember to feel on the inside.

On our way up the 14 5-story long escalators that lead to the high-brow movies on the top floor, we noticed that it had rained, and the sky behind us was the eeriest shade of yellow. Thankfully, I had my camera on me, so I was able to snap some photos of this phenomenon. While I was at it, I also captured 42nd Street from above, which was oddly quiet and nicely shiny. And no, don't think I used the "sepia" filter on my camera: these colors are true to life.

As luck would have it, our top sneak-in choice, "Layer Cake", was just starting. Only problem was the theater was packed! Two kind of fratty guys were entering the theater behind us, and you could see the panicked look in all of our faces: Where were we going to sit?

I spotted two seats together above the entrance to the theater, hence behind a kind of wall that would prevent yourself from sure suicide following epic depressions like "Dancer in the Dark", etc. My long legs skipped steps in near joy as I claimed them for us. But, dear lord, that wall in front of us practically blocked the whole screen! No, no this wouldn't do at all. My eyes darted around the theater, and like a combination of Lenny from "Of Mice and Men" and the Terminator, I spotted two adjoining seats at the other end of our row, two seats sans wall. Like a lady, I politely excused myself past the legs of the other patrons, when I saw that bounding up the steps on the opposite side were the very same frat guys from nary a minute before. Now it was on.

Like a mother lifting a car to rescue her baby, my adrenaline rush was in full swing. In an idiot-savante like trance, I started shouting "We're in a race! We're in a race!" My row cooperated nicely, moving their legs out of the way as I scrambled to get my ass in those coveted seats. "We're in a race!We're in a race!We're in a race!" Perhaps Mr. Fratty sensed how serious I was about my seats, or perhaps his heart just wasn't into it, but we arrived at the seats at the very same time, and I literally threw myself into them as if my life depended on it. Needless to say, my entire row was in hysterics laughing, as was my friend, who insisted on wearing a popcorn bucket with eye-holes cut out in order to preserve her good name.

"Layer Cake" had everything I like in a movie: Gorgeous leading man, London, Daniel Craig, slick directing, hard-to-understand accents, and a handsome, rugged, well-dressed main character. Consider it highly recommended.

One for the ladies.

Sunday was drizzly, but I didn't let that stop me from going on a 7 mile trek across the city, which included a little sting at the Turtle Pond in Central Park:

Someone get Pixar on this plot immediately: I smell box office gold!

In the end, the money I saved by not drinking/cab-riding was spent on 5 pounds of makeup at Bloomingdales. The good news is, now my face looks like this:

Thursday, May 19, 2005

Horny Horny Hippo

Europe's oldest hippo has been put on the pill to curb her sexual appetite and safeguard her health.

Zoo keepers were stunned to see 53-year-old Bullette energetically mate with her long-term partner Ede last week.

But vets warned that after having 20 calves, frisky Bullette is too old to give birth again, adding they were amazed she had shown any interest in sex.

Berlin Zoo spokesperson Ragnar Kuehne said vets were now giving the three-ton hippopotamus a specially prepared contraceptive pill the size of a bread roll every Friday.

Mmmmm.... Birth Control Dinner Rolls. It would certainly give new meaning to the Pillsbury Doughboy getting poked in the stomach and giggling.

You know what would make for great Iraqi prison torture? Feeding inmates birth-control-rolls and watching their reactions when their fresh-grown tata's are "tender." Although I really wouldn't want to be around for their mood swings - youch! Memo to Iraqi prisoners: It's no fun.

The Reviews Are In!

I desperately tried to score a ticket to one of last night's midnight screenings of Star Wars, not because I'm such a rabid SW fan, moreso because I just really like crowds. Alas, every single theater in New York was sold out, so instead I just sat in my house eating shredded wheat biscuits in a bowl with no milk.

Luckily, my L.A. correspondent Annie phones in this review of the movie that I think sums it up quite nicely:

Hello friends,

I just got back from the midnite showing of Star Wars and let me tell you it was awesome. While there were a few flaws, they really returned thestory to its old school style and power and I highly recommend you guysgo out to see it - I do not think you will be disappointed.

Plus, you will score a great new phrase:

"I sense Count Dooku."

This can be used either when you yourself must make number two, or whenit becomes clear that someone else already has.

Now I'm dying to see it. I haven't been to the movies in months.

Anyone in NYC wanna catch a showing tonight? I'll bring my Kool 100's, a bottle of Jack, and a good attitude... interested?

Aside: While we're on a reviewing streak, I'd like to add my own two pence: Boozy: The Life, Death, and Subsequent Vilification of Le Corbusier and, More Importantly, Robert Moses, a lengthy title for a really entertaining new play going on at 45 Bleecker Street. It was a New Yorker pick of the week, has gotten great reviews everywhere, and take it from me: As someone who is highly judgmental and easily bored, I really enjoyed myself. And the acting! Trust me, worth the ticket price. There's even a rabbit dressed up like a Nazi in it! I'm even debating reading The Power Broker now, something I've put off for decades, not to mention lugging that monster around is a fantastic upper-body work-out. Counterpoint: Run to the theater!

Wednesday, May 18, 2005

American Idol Recap...

Blogger's Block: 5 Easy Ways to Inspire a Post

"What to write? What... to... write... whattowrite?"

As my regulars may have noted, yesterday was an unusual no-posting day for Ms. Michelle. The reason is a rare but all-to-common disorder that I'm dubbing Blogger's Block (clever, I know). Believe it or not, it's hard to come up with relevant, humorous kit and kaboodles 5 days a week, especially when your only paycheck is a couple of hate mails and knowing that you're a single Google search away from getting fired. As the title would have you guessing, sometimes you just can't make it up.

But if this blog is a labor of love, then I consider each post a shiny, newborn miracle of God, and the archives like a showcase wall of jar-encased placentas. And while sometimes labor can be long and painful, other times I just find ideas being shat out of me like a litter of kittens.

This morning, nary an idea in mind, it hit me: Why not write a post about how I inspire myself to write? The double purpose is genius: it will give you lazy people something to read and me something to do. So here you have it: Five Easy Inspirations for a Blog Posting... and cue Karate Kid music... and here we go:

1. Work

By far the most obvious inspiration. In my case, blogging is to me what thrice-an-hour, 5-minute Virginia Slims breaks are to my co-workers: essential for relieving stress. Some of you may be happy at your jobs, and for that I congratulate you. I, on the other hand, am treated like a slave, and my work here is taken for granted. I am also the only employee under 56 years old (and, yet, still not the fastest runner!) But here on the blog, we're all friends! And sharing work tales from the dark-side is tops on my list!

For example: (and this is absolutely true): Last Friday afternoon, post-5 p.m., I was in the bathroom applying my "stage face"...

... my boss enters the bathroom, frowning as per yoozh (in fact, the only expression I can easily recognize on this woman is her trademarked dirty look), and goes into the handicapped stall. (I know, I know). From the stall, a voice: "You performing tonight?" "Yes." I responded meekly. The response of someone who's been beaten down into submission, surely. "Where?" "Oh, just some little theater in the Village."

Then, a question for the ages, the italics indicating a sharp rise in the pitch of her voice, and (need I remind you) asked from the toilet: Michelle, what's your ULTimate goal?

Michelle: Well... I'm not...

Boss: Hold on! Hold on!

Ladies and Gentlemen: The toilet flushes.

And before you even go there, why don't you ask the gaping soul cavity in my chest if it think I made this up or not, and maybe you'll have your answer.

The point is, soul cavity or not, the anger/joy of your workplace can no doubt inspire you to sharpen those blogging fingers and get to-a postin'.

2. Animals

Second on my list of inspirations are animals. Not much to say here, but much to see indeed:

3. Google

Google provides an unlimited venue for inspiration. Google image search, in particular, is the bane of my existence. Making sure your work-safe filter is on, plug any word into the Google search field, and golden coins of comedy will begin spewing from Google's generous mouth. Take, for example, GI-searching kittens", which will give you this result, and the inspired caption that follows:

Gerald had finally done it! He's proven what scientists have struggled to understand for years. If you try hard enough, you can, in fact, see your own brain.

Here's another one:

See? See how inspiring that was? Or this picture:

I wish I was dead.

Whichever!

4. Depression

This one is not used by me personally, but I've seen many other blogs fueled by depression. Take Rosie O'Donnell, for instance. (Please!)

5. Weird News Stories

CNN.com and Yahoo both have Odd or Weird News stories. When all else fails, and you can't reach your true inner voice, posting some of these articles will keep your readers coming back for more. For example:

See, funny on many levels. First, because horses have huge shlongs, so laced with viagra, they are literally dragging their "peckers" through the dirt. Second, why would a horse be on Viagra? Is Sting in town? All questions that can be answered with a well-informed blog posting.

Now naturally, my scalp tingled with a Head & Shoulders like anticipation. "This is gonna be great!" I mouthed to myself from the flourescent-lit death box I work from. Yet it seemed too good to be true. Sure enough - a hoax. The story isn't real. Although, I'd bet there are some midgets in Cambodia sleeping with one adorably small eye open tonight.

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I hope that my suggestions help in the long run, my little cockapoos! In the meantime, my work here is done... unless I am so moved by anger a little later today that I decide to post my opinions of Britney and Kevin's reality show "Chaotic"... Unless. Oodles of Toodles!